Appentence
by RockThaWriter
Summary: Has there been a single day, he asked himself, where anyone even took his humanity into account? When the people around him would stop for a minute and look at him, only to see that Mello was not Mihael and that Mihael could never be Mello. The simple answer would be no. The truth? Mail.


Cruelty of man cannot be measured by the number of his victims, or his profession. Society shapes our minds, clouding them with vague pictures of what is considered human and inhuman. A man with power is insane, inhuman, and incorrect. He must be eliminated in an instant. A man without power is weak, lacks intelligence and potential. He must be abused constantly. Cruelty of man is measured by society. Each and every one of us has the ability to be cruel, powerful and mad. Each and every one of us has the ability to be weak, misunderstood and stupid. Only the individual himself decides his cruelty, judged by the circumstances he finds himself in.

Mihael Keehl did not consider himself to be cruel, he only appeared to be. Actions speak louder than words, but do actions speak louder than thoughts? A human mind is powerful, not many get an insight on mankind's thoughts. Mihael Keehl was known as Mello, a man seeking power from the mafia and murderer of hundreds. The world deemed him a villain, when the world had only witnessed his actions from third hand information the media had provided. His colleges respected him for being the smart, ambitious man he had always been, praising him for compliments received from their boss. Has there been a single day, he asked himself, where anyone even took his humanity into account? When the people around him would stop for a minute and look at him, only to see that Mello was not Mihael and that Mihael could never be Mello. The simple answer would be no. The truth?

Mail.

The lock of the door clicked and with a small push, it opened. A familiar scent of cellars spread all over the apartment. No matter how hard their efforts seemed to be, the general cellar-scent could not be removed. In a way, the mere fact of a reliable factor in his life relaxed him. Unlike death, which was also a fixed event in the life he dreaded, the cellar-scent would always give off a nostalgic feeling of his childhood years. For a few seconds, his mind could rest at peace with the memories of friendly games and chocolate bars. He inhaled it, savouring those moments until the death of this woman would intrude the picture formed in his mind and he would exhale.

His leather boots stood next to a pair of black combat boots and his leather coat hung next to a beige fur vest. The rustling and crunching of chips being withdrawn from its bag, the ringing sound of a video game character jumping onto another platform but other than that, he was met with utter silence. Mihael stepped into the living room, which would be big if it hadn't also been a bedroom and a kitchen. A thin mattress situated in a corner of the room, in front of it a TV, not bigger than a square moving box. The redhead leaned against the cold wall and played on his gaming device. His eyes were shielded by orange tinted goggles, an advice he finally took to heart.

Mihael ran a hand through his saffron hair, seating himself next to the auburn haired gamer. One glance was shared, yet it had been enough for him to press the pause button and cast the PSP aside. He spread his arms, welcoming the tired mafia member in his arms. The redhead was known as Matt, the weak dog of Mello's. Not many knew him as Mail, the forgiving, the patient, and the thoughtful. Mihael knew Mail just as much as Mail knew Mihael.

It was the peaceful silence, which Mihael grew comfortable with whenever he rested against the redhead's chest. His lids felt heavy and slowly closed as a hand snaked its way down to wrap around his waist and draw him close. Anywhere else, he would get angry. Anyone else, he would kill them. Mail's exceptional talent of calming the blond exceeded everyone's expectations. Sometimes he would yell, hold a gun against his head and threaten him with his life, yet the gamer could smoulder out his fierce anger in one intimidating look. Those emerald eyes gave him more power than Mihael thought. Some time ago, the redhead stood in front of his apartment door, drenched from the pouring rain and his goggles hung around his neck. Mello's surprise and shock transformed into pure fury, but albeit his irritation at Mail's presence, those eyes blazed up in just a second and with their intensity, Mihael felt insecure. Mail had known plenty about him already, but this striking stare indicated his demanding wishes. Mihael couldn't refuse him.

Nowadays their communication occurred through gazes, touches and seldom dialogue. After a long day spent at the hideout of their mafia, Mail was a certainty that he could rely on. Returning to his apartment, sitting on the mattress with his bare feet touching the icy ground, laying in Mail's strong arms and forgetting about everything he'd ever done resembled paradise for him. The redhead crouched in a corner, his habit of sitting like L developed several months ago, yet Mihael always refused to tell him, because of the promise he made to the dead detective. What happened in that room at Whammy's, stayed there. Mello had watched a woman get raped today, knowing she was more than innocent and his consciousness kept eating away at his soul.

His sapphire eyes met the grassy greens, shielded by orange goggles. Mihael tapped on them and Mail reached a hand up to remove them. The blond stroked a hand at the freckled cheek, their faces merely inches apart. In his eyes Mihael saw everything one could yearn for. Love, lust, trust, loyalty and comfort mingled in the way he looked at him, enough to weaken Mihael at his knees and fall for this man all over again. Mail knew exactly who Mihael was. There was no façade to see through. Whenever Mihael tried, he failed and ended up crying into the redhead's chest.

Mail made him forget all the cruelty in his life and resort into contentment. In spite of everything that the mafia member went through, as long as he could return home into his arms and feel those velvet lips brushing against his own playfully, he was alright. Mail read him like his favourite book. When Mihael longed for his touch, holding hands would lead to making love. When Mail longed for his kiss, a simple glance made Mihael lean forward and passionately lock lips. When they wanted to be inside each other's thoughts, a hushed confession meant everything.

_I love you. _


End file.
